Muirkirk Road (first short story - 1995)

(class assignment)

The year was 1969. I was a first grader, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed. Like other first graders, I was apprehensive about attending school all day long. Adrift in a sea of faces, I often longed for the security of home. Many of my new classmates had brown skin, something I had seen before, but only at a distance. Mom referred to these people as "Negroes" or "blacks." The black kids lived on Muirkirk Road, in old houses and trailers. Fascinated with them, I quickly became friends with several of the girls in my class. But I was particularly taken with Bruce Morgan, the class clown. He was the most popular kid in our class, winning his many fans during recess with his impressions of Motown stars. I both envied and admired his talents.

My mother was full of youthful exuberance in those days. She loved classical music and spent much of her free time practicing the piano. Bach was her favorite; but, when it came to dancing, she preferred the Supremes. Some of my happiest childhood memories were our "dancing sessions." We'd play Tina Turner or Martha and the Vandellas, and dance like whirling dervishes. Even back then, Mom was unusually organized. She color-coded all of her records with tape: white meant classical; blue meant jazz; green meant rock; and red meant soul.

Once I asked her what "soul" meant. She explained, "heartfelt music sung by black people." Her favorite soul song was "I Second that Emotion." We'd sing the words together, but I had no idea what they meant. Then she bought a book of Motown songs for the piano that featured photographs of all the Motown stars: Smokey Robinson, the Four Tops, Marvin Gaye, and Diana Ross. I loved that book. The women pictured were so glamorous and worldly. I couldn't understand why my mother didn't wear false eyelashes, beehive hairdos, or sequined gowns like they did.

Because black people sang the music that I loved, it seemed logical to befriend the blacks who were in my class. Before long, I was hanging out with Dawn Canty, Darlene Jordan, Donna Dodson, and Valada Gibson. In fact, Mrs. Sciacca, a friend of my mother's, dropped me and her daughter Heather off at Donna's house to play. Donna lived on Muirkirk Road. I can still remember the stares from neighbors as we pulled into Donna's driveway, but Donna's mother ignored them, inviting us in for lunch.

One day, my teacher announced that some kids were going to be "bussed" to our school. She explained that because they would probably be a bit uncomfortable at first that we should try to make them feel welcome. To my surprise, when the kids arrived, they were all black! They were also angry and resentful. One of the kids, Kyle Clay, claimed that he was related to Cassius Clay (the future Muhammed Ali), and bullied me for several weeks. Meanwhile my black friends were distancing themselves. Then, one day at recess, Dawn, our leader, struck my face in front of the others. "Honky! she accused. What had I done? I didn't understand. Devastated, I ran home to tell Mom.

So I was a honky, an angry word I had never heard before. That playground incident marked my transition from innocent and carefree to cautious and reserved. Hurt and disillusioned, I mourned the loss of my black friends. Mom tried to console me, saying, "I'm sorry you had to experience one of life's most bitter lessons. Maybe I should have done a better job preparing you for it. There are people in this world that will hate you because of your outward appearance. You remind them of something that they fear or want to forget."

Then I learned about the oppression and suffering of blacks, how they were kidnapped from their home in Africa and forced into slavery by men with white skin. And though no longer slaves, they were still suffering at the hands of whites. Mom went on to explain that many blacks, like the ones I knew at school, were poor, one of the reasons they lived on Muirkirk Road instead of where we lived in Montpelier. Many blacks were angry, unable to forget the past or their current suffering.

Mom helped me realize that there was little I could do to change Dawn's feelings toward me. Liking Motown music was not enough. Neither was sympathizing with the black cause. As a white person, could I ever fully appreciate or understand their plight? Regardless of my actions, it was obvious that Dawn would stick with her own kind. During the next few weeks, Dawn lashed out at some other whites in the class as well. And could I really blame her?

Years later, the first black family to live in Montpelier moved in next door. The Stubblefields were not like the blacks I had met in school. They owned three furniture factories in Michigan and had several luxury automobiles. Their three children listened to Elton John instead of Motown and wore expensive, fashionable clothes. Soon I became friends with the Stubblefield children, particularly Belinda who visited everyday. But the Stubblefields shocked the neighborhood by painting their house aqua, a color that clashed with the other houses, painted in neutral tones.

One day, our next door neighbor, Mrs. Sonnenday, appeared at our front door. She wanted my parents to sign a petition pressuring the Stubblefields to repaint their house or move. And she already had the backing of several neighbors on our street. But I watched my mother, disgusted, order Mrs. Sonnenday off of our property. It wasn't the aqua house that had offended the neighbors, but the fact that the Stubblefields were black. Eventually, the Stubblefields moved away.

As I grew older, I continued to appreciate black culture and made a number of black friends. At seventeen, as I was working as a cashier at a local restaurant, a taxi pulled up.

I watched a tall black man in uniform step out. Immediately, I recognized him; it was Bruce Morgan! I hadn't seen him in at least ten years.

"You probably don't remember me, do you? he asked.

"Of course, I could never forget you. Bruce Morgan! You look very distinguished in your uniform." He smiled shyly.

"You're not too bad yourself." Your tag says 'Margo,' but you were always 'Margaret' to me."

Bruce's parents still lived on Muirkirk Road, and he had just visited them. Now he was headed for South Carolina, boot camp, he said. Determined to go to college, he'd eventually become a lawyer.

I thought of my acceptance to Allegheny, a private liberal arts college in Pennsylvania. Life was so unfair; I wasn't up against the obstacles he'd face. My parents could afford to send me, whereas his parents were struggling financially. And I wasn't black trying to make it in a white man's world. But I said a little prayer for Bruce as he walked out the door. I know he'd make it. I just knew.